


Helianthus

by timetravelingsherlockian



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelingsherlockian/pseuds/timetravelingsherlockian
Summary: He remembers having had the thought:that’s him.try not to fall in love again.Yet—among his files, pressed. He adds anotherHelianthus.





	Helianthus

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i can't let you go but i need to (i'll bleed if i have to)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289148) by [knoxoursavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior). 



> Almost a year in the making! 
> 
> Hanahaki disease is when someone coughs up flowers because of unrequited love. They'll eventually die unless their love is returned or they get surgery. Surgery removes the plant but it also means removing their feelings.*
> 
> Thanks to my friend, Sarah, for introducing me to this trope. And thanks, knoxoursavior, for writing a Superbat one tragic enough to spawn my own.
> 
> *I made a slight adjustment to the classic hanahaki mythology in that not only do you lose your love for the other person after the operation, but you lose your memories of them as well. (only mention of this here) Felt it was more practical and tragic.
> 
> (Okay, that's the end of the Long Rambling Forward. Enjoy!)

They were bright yellow. Large, thin, almost as long as his finger. Nothing like the catnip or the deep red carnation petals he occasionally pulled from between his teeth.  
  
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Sir.”  
  
“Just call the doctors.”  
  
“Sir.”  
  
Normally, he would wait. Normally, he would ignore it; find someone else; throw himself into the Mission. Somehow he knew that, this time, it couldn’t be that simple.  
  
Sunflowers.  
  
They were sunflowers.  
  
\--  
  
Of course, it couldn’t be that simple.  
  
_Bruce Wayne_ couldn’t simply walk into a hospital with hanahaki disease and no one _notice_.  
  
(He doesn’t know if he dreads the reporters most, or the chance of just one.)  
  
So, in spite of himself, he waits.  
  
So he waits for Bruce Wayne to be admitted due to a polo incident. Or a skiing accident. Or a jet ski crash.  
  
(something)  
  
But the crash doesn’t come soon enough.  
  
He feels the petals build up behind his mouth, in his throat, in the Cave as he listens about Lois and Jonathan and about how Martha watched him last night so the two of them could just go out and how it was still wonderful.  
  
He can’t just _break them up_.  
  
And he adjusts to it. Just like he adjusts to everything else, like the ache in his back and in his knees and the joints of his fingers. Just another ache near his heart (close enough to one he’s known before, anyway).  
  
And, before he knows it, it’s another month and another mission.  
  
\--  
  
It goes wrong.

  


He feels the scrape of the seeds in the back of his throat and, for a moment, gags and heaves.

  


\--  
  
And Clark knew.  
  
\--  
  
“Clark—” he tries to say. Tries to say between the blood and the grit of seeds and bile and lacerated throat.  
  
Slimy, long yellow petals streaked red and orange, crushed in upon themselves from having been forced from his lips, now held between perfect hands.  
  
Clark stares at his hands.  
  
Clumped disk florets lay at the man’s feet.  
  
“It’s—”— _nothing_ —he gags, sunlit petals catching on his teeth. He spits them out. “—nothing.”  
  
Clark looks the petals. At his feet.  
  
“Oh— _Bruce_.”  
  
A hand comes up to his back.  
  
He gags again.  
  
Tries to focus on anything but that hand. Alfred. Damian. The Mission.  
  
“I—” he tries.  
  
Gags. Spits out more seeds and disc florets.  
  
(It’s getting worse.)  
  
Switches to sign. _‘I have an appointment.’_  
  
He doesn’t. (Maybe this mission will be bad enough)  
  
\--  
  
It’s not.  
  
He makes it into an escape pod in time.  
  
And Clark smiles at him when he sees he’s alright.  
  
(Or as alright as he can be, still swallowing his own blood.)  
  
But he knows, when he sees that smile, that even if he had an appointment, he couldn’t go.  
  
Not again.  
  
\--  
  
His files say that he and Clark met in an overbooked cruise cabin; on an MTR runway; as they pursued the same man on Gotham’s streets; when he first caught the Kryptonite-covered alien falling through Metropolis’ skies.  
  
He doesn’t remember any of that.  
  
He remembers a lonely god, hovering above him. Eyes burning.  
  
“Do you bleed?”  
  
He remembers having had the thought: _that’s him._  
  
_try not to fall in love again_.  
  
Yet—among his files, pressed. He adds another _Helianthus_.  
  
He can almost see the first thin petal.  
  
\--  
  
He always knew his heart would be the end of him.  
  
\--  
  
“Why—” Clark breaks off, “Why don’t you just tell them?”  
  
Bruce just stares at him.  
  
“A-anyone that’s lucky enough for you to fall in love with must be at least a little bit in love with you too.”  
  
He wants to sign _someone else_ , so Clark will know. When he’s—away.  
  
He walks away.  
  
(All Clark knows is that he’s dying.)  
  
\--  
  
“You’re not going to tell me who it is,” Clark says, half-question, half-presumption.  
  
“No.” he swallows back down the harsh bite of seeds.  
  
\--  
  
_Helianthus_.  
  
Sunflower.  
  
The progression of the disease: Petals to flowers.  
  
Each petal of a sunflower is its own bloom.  
  
Isn’t it like both of them? That it has already progressed to the final stage before he extracts the first impotant ray flower from between his lips.  
  
\--  
  
The problem with love, of course, is that by the time you realize it’s killing you, you don’t care.  
  
\--  
  
“You can’t get it removed? I know it’s not—right, but,” Clark bites his lip, “you’re my best friend.”  
  
After a minute, Bruce looks up from the pile of blood and flowers he created.  
  
Doesn’t tell him that it’s inevitable.  
  
Wipes his mouth of blood.  
  
“I’d rather die.”  
  
“As you live?” Diana asks with a sad smile.  
  
“Stubborn,” Clark supplies, “injured? ill-tempered? No sense of self-preservation?” _Too in-love?_  
  
Despite himself, Bruce laughs.  
  
\--  
  
Clark catches him when he collapses.  
  
\--  
  
Normally he would fight it, but what was there to fight?  
  
He could fight _for_ love, but he could never fight against any of them.  
  
He learned: love is what hurts you.  
  
In this way, he is always sickly.  
  
Thomas, Martha, Jason, Gotham, Talia, and now, Clark.  
  
In hindsight, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.  
  
\--  
  
Of course, that’s not how he dies.  
  
If Bruce is going to die of love (he is, always), it won’t be choking on his impossible misaimed hopes; it will be with a Kryptonite bullet next to his heart. Volunteering for tribute under a red sun.  
  
Maybe, in this way, the flowers never mattered at all.  
  
So he steps in between Clark and Deadshot.  
  
Or takes a curse not his own.  
  
Or drives a spear into Doomsday’s heart, just so Clark doesn’t have to.  
  
Or maybe Gotham just takes him (there are plenty gunning for his love).  
  
Or maybe it happens like this:  
  
“I’m—going to be off-planet for a while. The Lantern Corp.,” Clark looks down, “I just—wanted to say goodbye. Just in case—”  
  
They’re silent.  
  
The flowers were never perfect. Petals always malformed from the journey. Covered in blood.  
  
Clark begins to speak again, “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can.”  
  
He looks down at their hands. The gold band on his left. Bruce’s old calluses. re-fractured fingers. Touches the bridge of his nose with a thumb, readjusting the glasses that aren’t there.  
  
“There are lots of people who love you, Bruce. I—know you don’t want to hear it. And—I know it’s not simple. Love never is. Please just—stay with us. Whoever this person is, Bruce. Please. Just remember they’re not the only ones. They aren’t worth it.”  
  
He stands.  
  
“I know.” he swallows, “It’s your decision. Just—before—” _you die_ “I wanted to tell you—that there are people who love you too. Even if they aren’t them. Even—even if I’m not.”  
  
He retreats.  
  
\--  
  
“And—I know I’m not them, but Bruce, I—I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The end.
> 
> (I would like to think Bruce recovers and things go back to mostly-normal, but take it any way you want)
> 
> Comments and critiques are always welcome.
> 
> I might do a second or third chapter from Clark's perspective.
> 
> Meetings:  
> "overbooked cruise cabin" (Superman #76, 1952)  
> "on an MTR runway" ("World's Finest," Superman TAS)  
> "as they pursued the same man on Gotham’s streets" (The Man Of Steel #3, 1986)  
> "when he first caught the Kryptonite-covered Kryptonian falling through Metropolis’ skies" (World's Finest #94, 1958)  
> The last was inspired by Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice, but (as you probably noticed) isn't exact.
> 
> Note:  
> I made up "MTR" as Metropolis International Airport's three-letter code.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tight-Lipped](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414204) by [Sonzaishinai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonzaishinai/pseuds/Sonzaishinai)




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